The Traveler's Chronicles
by Angel Commando
Summary: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. This prompt? Conall, a Titan, loves sleeping with his Hunter girlfriend. . . But compromises must be made.
1. The Musings of Katya

**The Traveler's Chronicles **

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, I don't own this. Also, please hire me. My headcanon has some pretty awesome ideas, and I wouldn't even be jelly if they were used in the game!

**Summary**: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. Today, a Russian Warlock, Katya, reminisces on her day of awakening.

**Warnings: **For this chapter, there are none. All further chapters will be labeled with corresponding warnings. Some will feature language, gore, or disturbing topics. In the meantime, enjoy Katya's musings.

**Author's Notes: **Katya is the nickname for a Russian woman I teach at my ESL class. This Katya is actually modeled very well after her - the Katya I know is very quiet, reserved, and prone to a lot of inward thinking. You'd be surprised at how little she contributes, but how smart she is. Russians, I've learned, tend to be very quiet and closed - but don't mistake this for not caring. They simply view silence as a benchmark for intelligence. No need to till it with idle chatter.

. . . "Say only what you need to say" is kind of a big motto I've run into with Russian students.

Here's to you, Katya.

* * *

"Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn."  
-Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

"Are you feeling alright today?" Her Ghost asked.

Katya looked up from the datapad she was perusing, bemused. Normally, her Ghost was a quiet little thing, content to simply offer some unhelpful advice from time to time, or to chirrup that she was approaching an objective point. . . or her favorite still, announce to the world that she was desperately in need of medical assistance, and if anybody happened to have a medical kit, that would be very beneficial to her situation. Katya looked at the spawn of the Traveler, and she cupped her chin in her hand, content to simply stare at the mysterious piece of machinery for a moment.

Katya remembered everything that she and her Ghost had been through, and a small glow of affection flared to life in her.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you." The Russian replied. She closed her datapad, and collecting her robes, stood from her seat. The archive had contained no new entries on the Fallen, which was a great shame, for she desperately wished that she could find a new way to exploit the Void against the Captain's arc shields. . . But it appeared such experiments had not yet been conducted, leaving her to carry out her own studies in the matter.

Considering that she was leaving with an Irish-descended Titan, Quinn, tomorrow, she highly suspected she'd get her chance to test out her theories.

Her Ghost followed behind her, a silent companion that hovered near her shoulder, its optic open and shuttering shut to imitate a blink as it passed by things it found interesting. Katya let him collect his thoughts as she returned the datapad to its rightful place on the shelf, and continued on her way, her robes trailing along on the floor behind her. They were a deep white color, embossed with the glossy crest of the Queen of the Reef. The crest itself was colored a rich gold, and if she stood in the light, it shimmered beautifully. Warlocks of her stature - and age - were to be above such petty motions of vanity, but, as Katya mused, not every Warlock owned robes bestowed upon them from the Queen.

She could stand in front of a mirror all day if she liked.

As they passed through the archives (and Katya nodded in respect to several fellow Warlocks), and emerged into the closed courtyard above the Hall of Guardians, her Ghost zipped in front of her and hovered at eye-level, his brilliant blue optic boring into her.

"Guardian, I can detect faint traces of adrenaline in our bloodstream. Acceptable, given your nervous tendencies about missions - and you do have one tomorrow - but that does not take into account why your heart rate seems to be increased this entire day. It spiked when I asked you if you were feeling alright."

Katya tucked her hands behind her back, used to her Ghost's intensive inquisitions. Thought, to be quite honest, the Russian woman thought it was entirely unfair that her body was always plugged into the Ghost's sensors. It made lying and hiding her health conditions damn near impossible.

"I can't hide much from you, can I, small Ghost?"

The Ghost shuddered from side to side. "No, not really. So, Guardian. . . tell me what's wrong."

Warm rays of sunshine flitted over her skin, warming her. Katya decided to take a detour, and meandered over to the balcony, where she could see the sun setting behind the mountains. She took a moment to breathe it in, closing her eyes, and letting the rays touch her. Yes, there was something very wrong today, an anniversary she didn't want to remember. . . today was a day of mourning for Katya, and in all honesty, she was surprised her Ghost had forgotten.

"Today," The Russian said, "Is the day of my Rebirth."

For a long while, her Ghost was silent. Finally, however, it swiveled out to look at the sun, muttering a quiet, empathetic '_oh_.' Katya nodded her head, staring out into the expanse of wildness just beyond the Tower, and she sighed in longing. Katya knew that her day of Rebirth was meant to be celebrated, but after 7 years of greeting this day, and having the same nightmares, again and again. . . she'd come to dread its arrival.

Rebirths, according to most Warlocks, were meant to be a day of honor. It was the day when the Traveler's proxies chose their selected Guardian, infused them with Light, and gave that Guardian purpose. But Katya. . . Katya knew she'd never be able to see it that way. Leaning against the railing, she took a second to reflect, allowing her mind to travel to a day, seven years in the past. . .

And, the terrible, anticlimactic truth of the matter was she didn't remember much of it.

It had been such a terrifying, disorienting event, that Katya recalled crying hysterically for a great deal of it, all while her Ghost flitted by her head, whispering and pleading with her to collect herself. As confusing and curious as the Ghost had been, Katya hadn't been sobbing because she was terrified of the Ghost. She'd been crying for all she was worth because she'd clearly remembered _dying_. And for a good few hours, she believed that this barren, rusted landscape she'd woken up to was clearly purgatory - meant to torture her for the rest of her existence.

Because. . . Because she'd been _there_. Though her memories of her first life had been stripped from her, Katya remembered looking up into the sky, and the frantic tugging at her hand, and she'd looked down. . . into the face of a man. A man Katya thought she knew very well. But, as seven years had proven, her memory of him had grown quite dim and fuzzy, until she couldn't even remember his facial features anymore. She knew that he'd had brown hair, and maybe even hazel eyes. . . but that was it.

After that, there had been a rush of fire, of pain, of screams. . . and then nothing. It had all ended with the sweet abyss of death. And the most impressive feat Katya had ever managed was _not _being terrified of that blackness. She'd merely _been _there, hovering in the black, permanently at peace.

And then, in that same rush of fire, of pain, a hand had viciously reached into the jaws of death and yanked her _out_, forcing her into a broken, and pained body. . .

It took little imagination to wonder why she'd been a sobbing, broken mess for hours on end.

"I'm glad it was you," The Ghost said, dragging Katya's mind back to the present, "If it's any consolation, the capacity of Light that I saw inside you. . . I knew you would be capable of great things."

"I know," Katya said, without an ounce of ego, "I know. . ."

". . . If it helps any. . . I'm sorry." The Ghost said quietly.

Katya smiled, a tiny, bitter, humorless smile.

"I know this, too. . . I'm just not sure I forgive you."

Katya separated from the railing, and for a moment the Ghost lingered behind. It may have been her imagination, but Katya swore she heard a faint, "_I understand_." Still, the Russian Warlock was glad when her Ghost rejoined her side, and together, the two strode into the main Tower's entrance, where plenty of Guardians greeted her warmly. And, Katya nodded in response, a few even offered her congratulations on her 7th Rebirth.

She accepted the words with a warm demeanor, but if there was a small, tight-lipped smile on her face, well. . . That was Katya's business.


	2. Adrian's Memory

**The Traveler's Chronicles **

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, I don't own this. Also, please hire me. My headcanon has some pretty awesome ideas, and I wouldn't even be jelly if they were used in the game!

**Summary**: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. Today, a Russian Warlock, Katya, reminisces on her day of awakening.

**Warnings: **Absolutely none. Enjoy your reading.

**Author's Notes: **I like messing around with canon. So you have this. I won't spoil what it is.

But I have another chapter that will explore this in more depth.

Also, sorry. I'm not good at writing Brits. But I'm trying to throw a little bit of cultural diversity in here. . . .

* * *

"Right now I'm having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I've forgotten this before."  
-Steven Wright

* * *

Today was a wonderful day, Adrian decided.

He was almost in a chipper enough mood to hum as he walked through the Tower's main pavilion, and he was strongly considering it when his best friend and teammate, Brian, dropped into existence beside him. Adrian paused, turning to his friend, and the expression on the poor Hunter's face was enough to make him chuckle.

"Ah, Brian, when you gonna learn, mate?"

Brian glared absolute acid at him, which Adrian took in stride. Grinning, he waited for Brian to grumble and stalk away, steaming. . . literally. The poor Hunter's camouflage drive was broken - a lucky shot from a Fallen Captain with a shrapnel launcher. What had made the situation so funny, however, was the fact that Brian had been jumping when he'd been hit. To this day, Adrian knew he would never forget how utterly hilarious it was to hear Brian squawk in shock as he spun around like a ragdoll. When he'd hit the ground, he'd blinked and stared around stupidly.

It was like watching a cat fall off of its perch, try to shake it off, and act as though it had meant to do that.

Brian's poor ego was wounded beyond repair, Adrian knew. It would take _years _for the proud man to finally come to terms with what had happened. Adrian grinned to himself as the smoking Hunter stomped across the pavilion, uncaring of the stares he received. Stretching, Adrian enjoyed the feeling of his muscles pulling under his skin, releasing knots and tension that had been developing. As the Titan, it was his duty to punch all things that deserved to be punched. And a certain Fallen Captain's luck had run out as quickly as it had begun - in fact, Adrian was fairly certain that he still had ether on his knuckles.

Brian snarled as he passed by a few other Hunters, and Adrian chuckled all over again. Winding his way through the hallways, the pair made their way to the hangar bay, where they'd go have a small chat with the Vanguard Quatermaster. Whether or not the poor Exo could repair Brian's armor was. . . up for debate.

"'Ey," Adrian said, giving his friend a whack on the shoulder, "Don't go ignorin' me, mate."

"Sod off." Brain snarled.

That just made Adrian laugh.

Brian would snap out of it when his poor little gear had been repaired. Within minutes, they arrived, and Brian made short work of somehow shimmying into another set of armor, summoning his Ghost and pulling it out of subspace. Giving the Quartermaster his busted armor, Brian was getting ready to turn away before the Exo tapped at her keyboard, and a small beeping noise stopped them all.

"Oh! I'm sorry Guardian, but it appears your signature is needed."

Adrian watched as Brain stiffened, and the smile quickly disappeared from his face.

Oh.

Shit.

Without realizing her blunder, the Exo swiveled the computer screen over to him, and picked up a small stylus pen.

"I just need you to sign the date here, your name, and print it, please. It's just for official records so we know whose gear is whose."

Adrian watched as Brian stood there, looking like a deer in the headlights, a myriad of pain and embarrassment flashing in his eyes. Adrian, not wanting to see his friend yell at the innocent Exo, quickly stepped in, flashed the machine a winning smile, and picked the pen stylus.

"We'll consider this one one me. It'll be coming out of my stipend, so label it as my gear." Quickly initialing boxes and signing the date, Adrian scribbled down a small signature. The Exo nodded.

"The repair job will be expensive."

"I know. He saved my ass out there today. We'll just call it even."

The Exo nodded, tapping away at a holographic keyboard to change the new details, and Adrian turned - finding Brian was already halfway out of the hangar bay. Jogging to catch up, he skidded to a halt beside the other Brit.

"Hey, she didn't know, it's okay-"

Brian waved him off.

"This day is pretty much bollocks. I'm going to. . . return to the dormitory." He finished lamely, a look of defeat in his eyes. Adrian deflated a little, as well, but nodded his head.

"I understand, go get some rack."

Brian waved to him as he slunk across the Tower corridor, and Adrian watched him go in silence. With a mental summon, Adrian asked for his Ghost - and it popped into existence beside him. Adrian was quiet for just another moment before turned to the tiny, enigmatic machine.

"Why can't he write anymore?"

The Ghost shuttered at him, imitating a blink. "I've told you this before, Guardian. Many times, in fact."

"Remind me."

The Ghost swiveled, likely scanning the interior of the tower for his friend.

"The same reason you keep forgetting," His Ghost replied, swiveling around to look at him again, "When I reconfigure you, after every death, bits and pieces of memory or brain tissue are destroyed. I cannot repair what is corrupted, so I must forge new, blank neurons for you to imprint to. Memories are lost in the process. This is why you cannot remember that I have already told you this. If I recall correctly, this is the fifth time we've had this conversation."

"Five times, eh? Doesn't explain why he can't remember how to write. . . and I can."

"That would link back to your Rebirth." His Ghost answered. "During the initial resurrection process, a Ghost must reconstruct a Guardian's brain. Unfortunately, this involves wiping most of your fine motor skills and past memories - they have been corroded or corrupted because of time. We try to give Guardians as many of their past life memories as we can, but the only material we have left is often the DNA left clinging to dried, weathered bones. . . A Ghost can only do so much, you know."

"So I'm an exception?"

His Ghost waffled side to side.

"A little. Just a little. When I reconfigured you, I found more source material to work with - hence, why you can remember how to read and write. Other Guardians can, but they are uncommon. And this is not including those Guardians who have learned, but have had those neurons corrupted due to multiple deaths - and eventually, the Ghosts must erase those neurons. . . meaning they must start over again."

"Will that happen to me?" Adrian asked, concern leaking into his voice.

His Ghost swiveled to him. "Not if I can help it. I do try to keep you preserved in the peak of your prime, Guardian."

Adrian flashed his Ghost a small smile. "Thanks. . . I guess."

His Ghost flickered out of existence, and the smile disappeared from Adrian's face.

One day. . . One day, he'd up like Brian.

And it was only a matter of time as to when.


	3. Vanguard Duty

**The Traveler's Chronicles **

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, I don't own this. Also, please hire me. My headcanon has some pretty awesome ideas, and I wouldn't even be jelly if they were used in the game!

**Summary**: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. This time, Cayde reflects on his position of Vanguard leader and longs to return to the field.

**Warnings: **Absolutely none. Enjoy your reading.

**Author's Notes: **When in the Tower, I heard my poor Vanguard Leader bark, "HEY!" So I turned around, and silence followed, and I thought, 'maybe it was a mistake', but then I hear a whispered, " .. . take me with you."

And I cracked up. Poor Cayde!

At the same time, though, he really seems to care about each individual Hunter, so I can't help but think that he's like a mother hen watching over his chicks. It's very weird. Anyway, I thought it would be fun to slip into his CPU for a bit, so here you go!

Next piece I plan on doing is with Ghosts.

And then, I think, I'll be writing about the personal lives of my imaginary fireteam family, Kade, Cyra, and Rita. I've been developing their story for a while, that dysfunctional family, them! This is a bit on the short side, but I've been busy playing like the rest of you. Gotta get to lvl. 30 so I can go kick Crota's ass!

* * *

"It is better to lead from behind and to put others in front, especially when you celebrate victory when nice things occur. You take the front line when there is danger. Then people will appreciate your leadership."  
-Nelson Mandela

* * *

Leading the Vanguard was, in all respects, very boring.

It was the same thing, day in, and day out. He'd spend most of his time pouring over maps, coordinating movements, and occasionally Hunters would wander in, exhausted, bedraggled, and covered in dirt and greasepaint. Cayde would take their sitreps, and update enemy positions and intel. In many ways, Cayde knew that the Hunters were the spine of the Guardians - without them, there would be no intel provided. They'd be flying in blind in all situations - the Cabal, strategic and thorough, would have outsmarted them, and the Vex, relentless and ruthless, would have swarmed over their safety points on Venus. And the Fallen. . . Cayde didn't want to think about what would happen if the Fallen managed to move against the City again.

But by the Traveler, what he wouldn't give to be out on the field again. . .

"Daydreaming again, Cayde?" Ikora said.

The Exo straightened, looking at her. Information scrolled across his HUD as his systems verified her as the Warlock Vanguard leader - and nobody could mistake that sly smile she always wore on her face. Cayde gave a halfhearted shrug and looked down at his map.

"No," He lied, "Just looking at Cabal fortifications."

Not that it mattered - both Ikora and Zavala knew that his true place was out on the field. Though his Hunters made his swell with pride, everyone in the Tower knew he was one of the elite. On any planet, any battlefield, he was deadly, cunning, and struck fear into these enemies that knew of his reputation. . . but the Tower needed him more. With his mentor long gone, returned to the Traveler, he was the only one qualified enough to take over his station.

Even if he wanted to return to the wild, he knew it would be unlikely. Off the top of his central processor, he could think of one or two Hunters who could _potentially _replace him as Vanguard Leader. . . but they weren't old enough. As an Exo, he could hardly remember how old he truly was, be he knew it was a number high enough that some of his earlier memory files had been corrupted and destroyed. He didn't need his Ghost to reassure him that it wasn't time eroding his circuitry - it was age. Even humans faced the same problem his central processor did: new memories needed storage space, so his CPU would replace older memories with newer ones.

Humans, at the beginning of the war, had crafted Exos in their image, incorporating all of their flaws as well as their perfections. The human mind operated much the same way.

"Cayde," Ikora said, gaining his attention again, "It's not like you to be so quiet."

"Just reminiscing." Cayde said, fingers tracing Vex nests on a Venus map, "It's the middle of the day and I'm bored."

Ikora smiled and chuckled, a soft, lilting noise. "I always appreciate your honesty and how upfront you are."

He shot a smile her way. "I always try."

"Don't try to woo Ikora, Cayde." Zavala said, looking up from a comm feed, "That Warlock's as solitary as they get."

Cayde laughed. "Everyone knows of your failed attempts at courting Ikora, Zavala."

The Titan Leader had tried. . . just once. For a while, it had been the Tower's hottest gossip, and the courting had lasted a few years. . . before the war between all factions had escalated, and left no room for the Leaders to do anything other than organize strategies and coordinate. Now that Cayde reflected on it, it had stopped when the Fallen had nearly breached the City.

"Warlocks are solitary creatures by nature, Zavala." Ikora said gently, "If you had proposed a puzzle to me. . ."

Zavala laughed. "You are the greatest puzzle I know, Ikora."

Cayde shook his head and smiled wryly. Apparently, the courting was still ongoing, as futile as it was. And when the war calmed down a little, it was likely that it would resume. . . as would the gossip. Sighing reluctantly, Cayde turned his attention back to his maps. . . or tried to.

Soft, almost inhumanly quiet footsteps echoed through the Hall of Heroes, heralding the arrival of another Hunter. Cayde picked up on the sound easily - he had a personal hand in helping train the newer Hunters, and as stealth was one of his areas of expertise, it wasn't uncommon for him to lead sessions on how best to employ it. He knew the sounds they made, the small whisper-light echo of sound that Hunters emitted as they moved.

He straightened again, and yes, there, coming down the hallway, was a Hunter dressed in muted colors. Some of the more brassy and daring Hunters enjoyed sporting ridiculous shades of neon purple, green, and yellow, but most chose to stick to matte shades. . . or white, strangely enough.

At that thought, Cayde simmered. He knew where those white armor shaders came from, and one day, he'd get his hands on one.

_That damn Vault. . ._

Ikora and Zavala, quite used to Vanguard factions dropping in to check in and report, turned back to their tasks, and Cayde turned to greet the Hunter. It was a woman, Awoken, mid-thirties, if he had to guess when her helmet dissipated and sub-spaced. Her appearance, which normally Awoken took great pride in, was quite mussed and tired. Her hair was frayed and falling out of its neat braid, and her armor bore the telltale marks of slashes.

Hive.

In the crushing formality that the Awoken possessed, she clasped a hand across her breastplate and gave a short bow. "Cayde." She greeted.

"No need for that, Hunter." Cayde said, "Looks like you've been through the ringer."

She drooped, exhaustion playing over her frame.

"The Hive stir on the moon. I found a fireteam in need of assistance, and aided as much as I could. They're getting more brash, their numbers bolstering."

"The moon?" Cayde echoed, glancing down at his maps. "Interesting."

"The same could be said of Earth. Old Russia is beginning to become infested with Knights."

"Thank you. I'll update the maps and send out a sitrep. Good work, Hunter, and thank you. . . do you need any medical care?"

The Awoken shook her head. "I'll go to the Hunter quarters and rest for a bit, I should be fine."

Cayde nodded. "Alright. And hey. . . be careful out there, alright? We've already lost one Hunter to the Hive last week. I don't want to have to hold funeral rites for you too. Understand?"

The Awoken nodded, and with another salute (although this one more sloppy and less practiced as she swayed on her feet), she turned on her heel and walked out. Cayde watched her as she left her Ghost didn't pop out and tell him otherwise. The Ghosts were programmed to out the Guardians on their lies when health was at stake. He did a quick scan with his medical scanners, just to be certain, but her word was true: she was just tired, and a little banged up, but not in need of medical care. She'd be fine.

Cayde stood there, watching her walk out, and he had to suppress a sigh.

The jungles of Venus, the deserts of Mars, the cold terrain of Old Russia, the cracked, barren surface of their moon. . . each one sang a siren's song, beckoning him out to the wild. And he wished he could go, grabbing The Last Word, summoning his Sparrow, and cruising for a fight. . .

But the Vanguard needed him.

A noisy group of Guardians - a Titan fireteam - came down the Hall next, and Cayde watched Zavala's mouth thin. The Vanguard Leader looked at the worse-for-wear soldiers and crossed his arms over his chest.

"So. Is there any reason why a _Hunter _had to bail you out of trouble?" The Commander demanded.

The sheepish silence that came in response made Cayde laugh, and he was still chuckling as he turned back to his maps.


	4. Romance: The Perfect Puzzle

**The Traveler's Chronicles **

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, I don't own this. Also, please hire me. My headcanon has some pretty awesome ideas, and I wouldn't even be jelly if they were used in the game!

**Summary**: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. This time, Cayde reflects on his position of Vanguard leader and longs to return to the field.

**Warnings: **Absolutely none. Enjoy your reading.

**Author's Notes: **Hey everyone! This is me trying to get back into the Destiny headspace. c;

It's exactly what's on the label - romance. I don't think that romance between Guardians would be forbidden - people who live forever would need something to bond and attach themselves to, after all! I don't think I'll be posting too many romances, but I just wanted to explore the different avenues I saw.

There will be one more romance thing after this one - but I promise it'll be more humor than romance. I need to update Lumi, too, but then I'll update this bad boy again, pinky promise!

If you want to see any prompts, send them my way via review or a PM! I'm up for sketching up pretty much anything in this bad boy. The Traveler's Chronicles encompasses a lot of headcanons, the canon in general, and interpretation!

. . . Also, Hunters are the best class. You know it's true. 3

* * *

"Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order."  
-Samuel Beckett

* * *

Brash, he had decided.

Stupid. Ignorant. Impulsive.

By the Traveler, at one point, he'd even thought them _simple_. He had believed that humans, for all of their physical incapability, had been far more intelligent and able-bodied than they. Sure, they could sling sniper rifles and knives like nobody's business, but their mental attributes were. . . lacking. But now, as he watched, he wasn't so sure anymore. Devan was absolutely positive that other Guardians would call him seasoned ("_You're older than dirt_." She'd giggled one day), that his age earned him a certain measure of respect. After all, not many lived to be the age of 700. . . But still, in all of his years after being Reborn, he just. . . He'd never thought he'd run into something quite like this.

Out in the plaza, the rain was pouring down, drenching everything it touched. A welcome relief from the drought that had been plaguing the City. And there, in that same plaza, she was dancing.

She seemed to not care at all for the rain - and instead spun in dizzying circles as she splashed from puddle to puddle, acting far more like a child than she had right to. Lien-Hua was a Guardian just shy of his own age - she was roughly 647 or so, if he remembered correctly. Her black hair, normally glossy and straight, was a matted, wet mess, but it danced along behind her, following the lines of her white and gold cloak.

Devan had unraveled mysteries that hadn't been touched for centuries. And when he lacked the feeling of satiation that scholarly pursuits could give him, he turned his restless energy to the battlefield. Acting as a tactician always made him feel right with the world. Even so, he'd always assumed he'd had everything figured out - even those of his own kind.

Titans were just as brash as Hunters, if not more so. They were aggressive, defensive, and more than a little bloodthirsty. Where Hunters sought their battles for adrenaline fixes, Titans viewed firefights as sport, as a means to challenge one another. For Titans, wars were nothing more than endless competitions. Hell, at one point in time, he was fairly certain that there had been a scoreboard of some kind keeping tally of who killed what the height of the Cabal skirmishes. It had been amusing, if nothing else, to Devan that Titans should feel the need to keep score of such a thing, especially considering that it didn't matter who murdered what.

So long as all threats to Earth (and the Traveler) were exterminated, petty egotistical disputes shouldn't be required to fulfill their primary mission.

Hunters were just as easy to figure out. They were prideful to the point of it being a fault. Gamblers by nature, they were more than willing to empty their pockets of glimmer in the face of bets. If such a bet resulted in their death, well, that was simply something that went with the territory. Beyond their basic nature, they also had an infuriating way of attempting to be intelligent simply by attending lectures or entering the Warlock's archives. . . most of which were disastrous attempts, given all normally ended with Hunters challenging Warlocks who were studying (uncommon), picking their fingernails clean with one of their many knives (more common), falling asleep (supremely common), or leaving within two seconds of their entering (the most common).

Devan, as a Warlock, had stopped putting faith in Hunters many years ago.

In truth, he'd believed he'd gotten it all figured out. Titans were brave, but egotistical, Hunters were courageous, but stupid, and Warlocks were clearly superior for creating the art of Thanatology. Not to mention Warlocks often foretold of impending disasters, or their attempts to figure out the damage done to the Traveler. . .

He had really thought that in his 700 years of living, everything was black and white.

Of course, leave it to the Traveler to introduce the first shade of gray he'd seen in a long, long time.

Lien-Hua had been the first person to surprise him, to add a lost, lonesome piece to the jigsaw puzzle he'd completed eons ago.

As if sensing his gaze, she stopped dancing, and with a wide grin, lifted a hand and beckoned to him.

"Devan!" She called over the sound of the rain, "Come out here with me!"

His first reaction: _why?_

It was raining. He'd get wet. What could he possibly do in the rain - just stand in it? Lien-Hua threw back her head and laughed, spreading her arms wide, and almost as if drawn by an otherworldly force, Devan somehow found his feet moving, taking him out from his dry, sheltered alcove. Lien-Hua was back to spinning and giggling, acting like a small human child. And Devan drew up short, just shy of touching her, and for some reason, he found his lips twitching into a smile.

She was _his _perfect puzzle.

Unsolvable. A knot that could never be frayed. A pleasingly infuriating mystery. A riddle with no answer. Earlier in his life, that would have angered him. Now? Now, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted it to stop.

He had met her many years prior, when she'd been sitting on the ground in the plaza, eyes closed. At first, he had assumed she was soaking up the sun - but as the fog rolled in, he knew that wasn't the case. When he had stopped and asked her what she was doing, incredulous (Hunters could be so stupid sometimes), he had received an utterly stunning smile, her black eyes creasing in happiness.

"_I like the sound of the noise the boots make in the plaza. I just sit down and listen. Here. Join me._"

Devan had stared down at her, about to bite out a scornful "_no_," but for some reason, his body had responded. And he had found that the sound of Guardian's boots on plaza had been something of a pleasant noise.

And that same, mystifying force drove him now, to reach out and catch her hands. Lien-Hua looked at him in surprise, but then that gorgeous smile illuminated her face again, and she laughed - the sound echoing and bouncing throughout the plaza - as Devan caved to her, as he had so many times before.

He danced with her, curbing her recklessness and energy into something more graceful and fluid. He smiled, hearing the whispers of other Guardians but cared nothing for them.

He waltzed with Lien-Hua in the plaza as the rain poured around them, the Traveler glittering in the background.


	5. Romance: Can I Sleep With You?

**The Traveler's Chronicles **

**Rating: **T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

**Disclaimer: **Bungie, I don't own this. Also, please hire me. My headcanon has some pretty awesome ideas, and I wouldn't even be jelly if they were used in the game!

**Summary**: The Traveler has many children, and these are their stories. Small drabbles, new prompt every chapter. Conall, a Titan, loves sleeping with his Hunter girlfriend. . . But compromises must be made. (I suck at updating this chapter to chapter lol).

**Warnings: **Slight sexual themes (SFW, pinky promise), small bouts of violence.

**Author's Notes: **Back again! This time. . . Another romance story.

Slight more comedy than romance, as promised. I'll let you guys read on and decide which one you think is more appropriate: comedy? Or romance!

Additionally, ya'll have to help me decide which prompt should be my next one:

Battle of the Twilight Gap (may be more than one chapter)

Ghosts, and their musings. . .

Or an Exotic weapon and its origins!

* * *

"I hate sleeping alone."  
-No author.

* * *

He was running, a shotgun clenched tightly in his hands. He swore he could hear the gun creaking, threatening to break under the strain of it all, but that only made him grip it tighter. Behind him, footsteps thundered, but no matter how fast Conall ran, the Cabal kept gaining. He could hear their heavy breaths rasping in the air, the armor clattering, the sounds bouncing off the walls and driving into his skull, threatening to drive him insane. Still, he ran, his own booted feet just barely managing to keep him a step away from their shields and punches that were sure to spell his death.

His Ghost was gone - they'd taken it, and he was sure that the poor thing had already been murdered, becoming nothing more than a flattened scrap of metal and electronics. He could practically feel his entire soul hurting with that truth - _and _the terrifying knowledge that as soon as the Cabal laid their filthy hands on him, he was going to die the True Death. His armor was smoldering, scorched, and almost completely beyond repair. Plasteel plating sagged out of it at junctures, making it painful to run, or was outright missing - making him the perfect target.

Desperation made his breaths rasp in his throat as he ran, and he prayed to the Traveler that he would soon have enough Light to conjure a Ward of Dawn, or at the very least, a Fist of Havoc. As Conall ran, shots bounced by his feet - until a lucky one singed the side of his foot.

It slowed him down enough that another Cabal was able to get a lucky shot off on his leg, and his shield failed him. It pierced his thigh, and with a cry of pain, he tumbled down to the ground.

_This is it, _he thought, tears burning in his eyes. He was the last Guardian in his fireteam. . . not that there was one anymore. They'd all died, one by one. And now. . . Now it was his turn.

The Cabal movements slowed, and somehow, impossibly, Conall flipped himself over. If he was going to die, he was going to die looking his killers in the face. She glared up at them and their masked heads, silently praying to the Traveler that they would at least make it quick. But no, instead, they reached down, large, rough hands grabbing him, pinning him.

Conall panicked.

He fought. He shouted and cried out, writhing and thrashing, trying to escape them.

"_No! No, let me go! LET ME GO!_"

He cocked back his fist, breaking free of their hold, and jammed it forward, right into the helemeted face of a Cabal Legionary.

His hand, however, met empty air.

Conall blinked, and the nightmare dissipated. For a moment he had difficulty placing where he was. He bolted upright, and blearily looked down to see blankets covering the bottom half of himself. He had a nice sheen of sweat on his bare chest, and under his ribs, he could feel his heart practically racing, thumping with such force that he was surprised the poor thing hadn't burst and stopped out of exhaustion.

"A nightmare. . ." He mumbled, scrubbing at his face. He groaned, feeling relieved.

_Goddamn Cabal. . ._

He looked over at his spacious bed, however, and realized that there was an occupant missing. She always slept with him when she came back from the field, regardless of how early or late it was. His lass was like that though - despite what Hunters thought, they did enjoy peace and stability when not being wild and free. He provided that peace and stability. She'd just come back from a deep ops, his lovely Caterina, and he was absolutely, positively, 100 percent _sure _she'd come to bed with him.

They'd fallen asleep in a very comfortable tangle of arms and legs, hadn't they? He'd fallen asleep smelling the jungles of Venus in her hair, feeling her soft skin. . .

"Cat?" He called out to his dark bedroom. "Cat, love, where'ya?"

He patted the bed beside himself, making sure she hadn't cocooned herself in the covers. She had a tendency to do that. . . But no, she had not. They were still warm though, indicating it hadn't been long.

"Cat? Love?"

"Gyah!" Came the answering reply.

Conall gasped in surprise when Caterina did, in fact, appear.

She dropped from the ceiling. He caught his lover right before she hit the bed and bounced off. Instead, she was safe and sound in his arms, although she looked a little dazed. Long, glossy black hair framed a lovely heart-shaped face, her olive skin soft and inviting, just begging to be touched. . .

"_No!_" She snapped, wriggling herself free of his hold. "No, you terrible, terrible man!"

Conall sat there, blinking. "Love? I don't understand-"

"_You punched me straight onto the ceiling!_"

. . . Oh.

_Oops._

Occupational hazard with trying to sleep with a Titan, they'd both come to discover. If he punched and didn't realize it was her. . . This wasn't the first time that poor Caterina had wound up slammed into the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the floor.

She glared at him, black eyes narrowed in rage. His Hunter stood with her hands on her hips, lips pursed, body tensed in anger. Conall rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, feeling guilty as all hell.

"Cat, love, I'm sorry, It was a nightmare - the Cabal-"

She snapped something in a language - an ancient language - and cut him off. "No, no more excuses, _mi amor! _This is one time too many! _Mierda, _I am tired of being slammed into the ceiling! Do you want me to ever sleep with you again?"

"Hey! That's not fair. I was having a _nightmare_-"

"_Contesta! _Answer me! Do you want me to sleep with you again?!"

"Yes! There's not a day that goes by that I don't want to!"

Conall watched as she was quiet for just a second, her eyes softening around the edges - she was caving.

He knew when to press the weaknesses she had for him.

"Cat, love, you're the only thing that keeps me sane. You know I love you. I would give everything to have a normal life with you. . ."

She broke, like she always did. She sighed, and the anger drained out of her body. She walked forward, rejoining him, and Conall felt relief course through him. He loved his little Cat, and she was glad he was no longer angry with him-

She reached out and pressed a finger to his mouth, smiling devilishly.

"If you want me to sleep in your arms again, _mi amor_, then I'm afraid we have to reach a compromise. . ."

Oh no. He didn't like that look in her eye.

"Yes. . .?"

Reaching over to her armor, she pulled out a spool of sapphire filament, its strands glittering beautifully in the dim lighting of his room.

Conall swallowed nervously.

He sighed and gave in, letting her have her way, like he always did.

When she was finished, he sighed again, if only to help with his exasperation.

"Is this really necessary?" He asked.

He'd been tied to the bed, and while normally he wasn't opposed to some lovely foreplay, he couldn't really do anything the way she'd strapped him down with sapphire filament, _and _she had no intention of being nice to him tonight, either. Not that he could blame her - he'd punched her into the ceiling. _Again_.

"_Si_. Unless you want me to leave?"

"Love, I can't conjure-"

"Oh my, my bed seems so comfortable tonight. . ."

With another sigh, he flicked his fingers, gathering Light at his hands. A Ward of Dawn flickered into existence, but without the entire movement, it was small. . . Just enough to cover himself. And absorb any punched he might accidentally throw at her.

Still, fearlessly, Cat curled up on his chest, stretching like a cat as she got comfortable.

Conall stared blandly at the wall, cursing his nightmares. . .

But hey.

At least he could still feel the light weight of her on his chest, her own heartbeat, and he could smell the jungles of Venus in her hair. . .

_What I wouldn't do for this woman. _


End file.
